how to live (in the present)
by and the whispers commence
Summary: clique summer exchange '13. for danny (one hundred sleepless nights) - It's easy to accept that even if he's not tangible, he's not really gone either.


**title: **how to live (in the present)**  
prompts: **afternoon tea, laundry, double dates, and "if you could see me"**  
for: **danny (one hundred sleepless nights) & the clique spring exchange '13**  
word count: **1340 (via MS Word '13) including body and epigraph/poem thing.  
**notes: **well—this is very different from the original version. I do hope you enjoy either way. happy spring/summer. implied/mentioned layne x josh. warnings for implied dark themes. (very slight, no true worry.)  
**disclaimer: **lisi harrison still owns all rights to all _clique_-affiliated things. the poem and plot are my own.

:.:-:.:

_I bet  
if you could only see me now  
(and how I've moved on)  
you'd smile (bitterly)  
and shake your head  
and say that I was "something."  
Now  
I guess it's true  
because who I am  
is only a product  
of who I've become._

_-between rays of light_

:.:-:.:

She remembers, vividly, when times were simple. She remembers when he was the only one who would watch _Grease_ and the classic version of _Footloose_ as many times as the summer would allow, when they spent days curled up with cookie dough ice cream and listened to the old records they'd had to dig around for on a player that he rebuilt himself, when he was (or at least seemed) happy. She remembers when they had tea every afternoon, without fail, and made up fake gossip to feel sophisticated. She remembers when they were _teenagers_ and things being easy were _okay_ and she didn't have to worry about what kind of horror reality was cupping in its hand and waiting to throw at her when she rounded the corner.

-x-

It's been almost six years and, in theory, she should be able to go at least a day without the dull throb in her chest and the plague of thoughts and memories of him—of his warm, open smile and molasses eyes and messy, chestnut hair. She should be able to live wholly, uninhibited. How can they expect her to just forget him though? His reminder is constant, present in the sandalwood incense and _The Decemberists_ playlists and gooey brownies on rainy days.

It's even alive now, arching over the slouch of her spine with faultless ease, nestling into the lukewarm mug of Earl Grey, bleeding through the mint-and-white pinstriped wallpaper. It's almost comforting, really. It's easy to accept that even if he's _not tangible_, he's not really gone either.

-x-

He had always liked fairytales. He'd spend hours waxing poetic about them—about _magic_ and_ love_ and things that she never really took the time to think about. The only fairytale she liked was her own, and that was the one that taught her not to believe in happy endings.

In their own right, they kind of were a fairytale. They had the kind of friendship people ached for—companionable silences and middle-of-the-night conversations and could tune into one another from across _town_, effortlessly. It was a gut instinct, something they were _born for_.

And, of course, they were firm in their belief that it was entirely platonic. So when Josh asked her to go on a double-date with him so he could woo Claire and she could distract Claire's brother Todd, she didn't hesitate to agree. Because that's what friends do, right?

Apparently not. It had taken fifteen minutes before Todd started laughing and Claire politely informed Josh that he didn't need two dates and stormed off in towering heels that couldn't possibly be safe. Todd had merely followed with a polite goodbye and another reverberating laugh.

-x-

She twists the dial deftly with soft fingertips, pressing the power key and listening to low, soothing tumble of the washing machine. Doing the laundry is the only chore she never makes haste to complain about. Everything about it is soothing—the noise, especially. The click and buzz of static, the rumble of material moving in neat intervals, the slow whir of the machine.

Laundry had been another one of Their Things. It started in the morning every Saturday when they went over to his family's bed and breakfast and gathered up all the bedding. Sheets and pillow cases and coverlets were all separated, laundry soap measured and poured. By the time four o'clock rolled around, it was time to fold the extra sets and make the beds. They did it together, taking breaks in between bedrooms to sip whatever fruity flavor of tea was most popular with the guests that week.

She pauses now to drop a chamomile tea bag in the old Yankees mug, the warmth of it even hotter against her chilled hands, and leans back to let the vibrations of the washer soothe her tension-filled muscles.

-x-

Two weeks after his seventeenth birthday, she was sitting in her room and listening to an old jazz record while reading _13 Reasons Why_. The home phone ringing from down the hallway had seemed unimportant, probably just another one of her brother's cohorts or her dad's business buddies.

She had a tendency to be wrong about things like that.

It wasn't until Chris walked in, holding out the phone mutely with an expression so devoid of emotion it was almost frightening, that she realized that something wasn't quite right.

"Who is it?"

"Mrs. Hotz."

She had tipped her head, the picture of ignorance, but taken the phone anyway, trying to read the empty expression on her brother's face to no avail.

"Hello?"

"Is this Layne?"

"The one and only." She sat up, wondering what on earth her boyfriend's mother would want at ten at night on a Thursday.

"Honey, it's Josh. He… He left you a note."

The only sounds that had followed were static and muffled sobbing.

She dropped the phone.

-x-

The anniversary was yesterday.

That's why she's going to the cemetery now, when she knows that everyone is already tucked back into their homes, trying not to think about how much has changed in six years and focusing more on what today is all about and how they can live in the present instead of the past.

She places a bouquet of hydrangea and statice flowers behind the base of the marble arch. The front is overrun with more common variations—roses and tulips, lilies and daffodils—and even a soccer ball and a lone teddy bear. She presses her hand against the cold, rounded edge at the top and lets out a slow breath.

"I'm not who I'm used to be," she says.

She likes the talking part, even though she's not sure of where it goes. Maybe she's just speaking to a burial ground, a bunch of bodies stashed away in what people considered to be peace.

"I'm better at moving on. It's a thing you learn to do when you have no other option." She lets herself sit down in the grass, presses her palm flat against the back of the grave marker and letting its chill sink into her bones, relishes the early morning quiet. "I'm not really who you used to know, I guess. Even if I act the same and look the same and think the same, I'm still different. It's a lot to think about, I know. But I have a lot of time to think these days."

Her hand slides down and rests in the dewy grass. "If only you could see me now, J. I don't know if you'd even be able to believe it."

-x-

The note really hadn't been much of anything. It was on a piece of notebook paper, folded up with her name on the outside. _I love you_ and _I won't lie and tell you I'm sorry, but just remember that who you are is beautiful _and _Don't stay in the past, it'll get you nowhere_ scrawled hastily across the sheet in black ink.

She remembers crumpling it into a ball and throwing it across the room, remembers hating him for what he'd done but so desperately wanting him back. She'd retrieved the note later, tucked it against her chest as if it could even begin to compare to his warmth, stared at the ceiling and did not think, did not see, did not _be_.

And then she'd taken the worn paper, slipped it into a drawer, and vowed that she could still be herself even with a puzzle piece missing.

-x-

She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket, folds it up gently and tucks it into the flowers.

She stands on balanced feet, walks away with a steadiness she hasn't fully possessed in six years.

_I still love you, too, but I'm finally learning how to live again._

-x-

_fin.  
_

**end notes: **again. I hope you enjoyed. pretty much everything I write is officially unbeta-ed, please do let me know if I missed something crucial while editing. and for those who are curious, the flowers Layne laid on the grave are hydrangea for heartfelt and statice for remembrance; the black pen on the note is for death/mourning. happy june! xx


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